


A Neon Sign With Just One Letter Showing

by Trystero



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, An Unexpected Journey, Awkward Romance, Bad Sex, Escape fantasy, F/M, Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner..., Sexting, Smooching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-02-08 16:05:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1947456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trystero/pseuds/Trystero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You never know when adventure will come knocking, and when it does, you ought to be prepared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I didn’t want to be a journalist. I hoped to be a lawyer. But law school’s hard to get into, and I wasn't exactly disciplined back then.

I did on occasion think about becoming a journalist, but I saw myself doing the cool stuff, big, important stories, investigative work, foreign correspondent work. Tucked in at a dark, smoky foreigners’ bar in Cairo, getting info from my Libyan connection.

I never pictured myself doing what I actually do, which involves going to champagne receptions and getting kissed on both cheeks by constructs of shame-free surgeons and evil-genius admen. 

Yup, I have become that most useless thing in history - entertainment editor for a lowbrow daily.

Still, truth be told, I caught a good break getting this job. It pays well and keeps me in free hors d’oeuvres. Friends of mine from journalism school who got better grades than me are still chasing foreign correspondent dreams at the bottom of a bottle. They look up to me and down at me at the same time. I tell them not to, and I mean it. “All work is prostitution” I say, but they still sneer at what I do - then ask to come to the parties.

Today’s assignment is to interview the cast of “New Vegas”, a BBC-funded tv series based on a 1000-page book, that’s now on its second season. It’s been a massive indie hit and everyone watches it – everyone except me. I had to do a marathon catch-up on it last night just to know what I was talking about today.

At first I wasn’t into it. Blood and ultraviolence everywhere, implausibly bouncy tits, ludicrously toned abs and impeccably stubbled, chiselled jaws, all overlaid with a ton of fast dialogue conveying convoluted intertwining plotlines that I could barely keep up with. It was hard to tell the difference between one stupidly good-looking bad-guy and the next. At first. Then, just as I began to be able to differentiate between the hunks, it started to get blurrier about who was really a bad-guy and who wasn’t.

Long story short, I stayed up till 3:23am watching the entire first season, and by the end of it I was in love. With the backstory, the factions, the characters, the scenery, the plot(s), the whole shebang. And most of all, with a character called Craig Boone, the not-always-loyal sidekick of the main character, played by an actor named Ray George Orton.

Boone is a kind of beautiful monster. He’s committed massacres, killed his own wife, and now takes pot shots at anyone who looks at him the wrong way, but despite that he’s the most compelling, and somehow the most sympathetic character in the series.

Today’s the last day of filming for the second season. I get to interview the cast on set, and tonight I get to go to the wrap party. For once, in my career as a buyer and seller of entertainment bullshit, I’m actually really looking forward to it. I’m actually going to meet Craig Boone (sort of). I can’t wait!

***

I’ll admit, it is a bit late in life for me to be suddenly fanning myself over a fictional character, at the late-blooming age of what-comes-after-29. It’s not a dignified state to be in, exactly. And yeah I know that when I meet Ray George Orton he’ll probably be nothing like Craig Boone. But I can’t help it, every time I think of meeting him I go all swoony, like I’m a tween with concert tickets for a boyband.

So, at 7.00 sharp, in my cutest suit (the one that manages to be businesslike and slutty at the same time) I report to security outside the filmset and am led in by a summoned minion. I’m to watch two scenes being simultaneously filmed in adjoining sets, before later interviewing the cast members in their hotelrooms. In one, “Lucius”, one of the main bad-guys, is sexing up “Arcade”, one of the main good-guys. I watch for a while. Lucius didn’t have a very important role in the first series, but according to people who’ve read the book, in the next section of the story he becomes integral to the action. He’s certainly getting some action here. And by god he’s well-endowed.

After a while the bare man-flesh and heaving buttocks start to make me blush, so I move on to the next set, to see the Courier being interrogated by über-baddie “Vulpes Inculta” while she’s being tortured by huge bear of a man I don’t recognise.

“The Legate Lanius,” whispers the minion in answer to my questioning look. “The commander of Caesar’s armies. Haven’t you read the book?”   
“No, I’m a journalist. I ask questions first, check Wikipedia later, and I may write fiction but I never read it,” I give him a cheeky wink. He doesn’t look amused.  
“But you’re a reviewer. Do you review things you haven’t even read?”  
“Firstly, I’m not a reviewer, I’m an entertainment editor which mainly means keeping ahead of celebrity gossip. What’s the length of his penis and who’s he sticking it in lately, that’s what my readers want to know. Secondly, keep this under your hat, every reviewer for every paper in this town writes reviews of stuff they haven’t actually checked out.” I’m just kidding of course - no way do I expect him to keep that little factoid under his metaphorical hat. I like to do my bit for undermining the fourth estate.

The minion gapes at me. I go back to watching the action unfold onstage. The Courier, in a shiny black PVC catsuit, is bound to a chair with crisscrossed white ropes. The image strongly suggests bondage and discipline. Vulpes Inculta is stalking around her, asking questions about the “Boomers,” one of the more mysterious factions in the story, and the bear-man is holding a red hot brand in a firepit, obviously planning to burn her with it, or at least threatening to. He holds it up and the glowing shape is in the outline of a bull.

I don’t need to tell you it’s all smoke and mirrors. The fire is not really a fire and the brand is not really hot.

In between shots the cast relaxes and jokes around. It’s amazing to see their body language change completely when they feel the camera on and off them. One moment Vulpes and the Legate Lanius are genuinely menacing, the next they’re smiling and sipping mochaccinos from Styrofoam cups the filmset minions have brought them.

Then I nearly forget to breathe when none other than Craig Boone swaggers in from offset, dressed only from the waist down, in a pair of torn khaki pants and well-worn combat boots. He’s been through make-up and is covered in cuts and bruises. They must be fake, but boy they look real. The body under the paint isn’t fake though. Those abs, those deltoids, those biceps! Sweet mercy he’s got a torso to die for.

And here’s where life experience kicks in, like the buzzkill that it is. With a body like that, he has to be a vain, boring, asshole. No one with a personality worth knowing would spend that much time just working out. Would they? Hmm. He’s an actor... so for him looking all muscled is part of his job... and I know plenty of good people with tedious, meaningless jobs. So, I think I’m just gonna give him the benefit of the doubt. Till he proves me wrong.

Boone is put in chains, then filming starts and he “enters”, dragged in by nameless legionaries, and forced to his knees. Vulpes Inculta orders Lanius to brand Boone with the bull-shaped iron. The Courier and Boone both scream as the brand is applied. Then Vulpes uses further threats of torture on Boone to force the Courier to answer his questions.

Even though it’s just a play, it’s surprisingly intense and nasty to watch, and I even cringe a bit when Boone gets “burnt” again.

I’m just thinking about going to watch Arcade getting happily banged by Lucius some more when the minion tells me it’s time to go meet the costume designer, set designer, scriptwriter and some other behind-the-scenes people.

I spend the rest of the morning and lunch with the above people. They’re all extraordinarily talented and brilliant, and make me wish I’d chosen a more creative career myself. Or at least a more honestly creative one. It would be nice to work with people like these, instead of people who hang around outside starlets’ houses at dawn to catch a snap of them popping out for coffee looking slightly dishevelled in the morning, or better yet, some guy sneaking out, who’s supposed to be betrothed to someone else.

I get Ray George Orton’s unofficial resume from the creatives over lunch. He’s ex-US Marine Corps, dishonourable discharge for going awol, and following that ex-WWF pro-wrestler. Apparently he was quite successful as a wrestler, but quit after a long-running dispute with the organisers escalated. I only half listen, because I can see him having lunch on the far side of the room with other actors, and I’m swooning again. I actually find myself picturing how gorgeous our imaginary offspring would be. And I don’t even want kids! Goddamn hormones.

The creatives also fill me in on some of the other actors. Arcade, young, blonde and gay in the show, is apparently 43, naturally dark-haired and is married with three kids. This hasn’t stopped him having a vast army of fans, both boy and girl, who love him for what he isn’t. Meanwhile the actor who plays “Benny”, a bad-guy and a real lady-killer in the show, recently married one of the legionary extras while on vacation in Hawaii. Veronica, dark-haired in the show, is blonde in real life and comes from somewhere in Eastern Europe. Her accent is explained in the show as a “Brotherhood accent”. 

More than one of the cast-members, including Lucius, are ex-porn stars, I’m informed. Yep, that explains a lot, now I think back on his scene with Arcade.

After lunch I’ve got three interviews lined up at the glitzy hotel the cast members are bunked at. Main character and (mostly) good-gal The Courier, evil-genius baddie Vulpes Inculta, and – fan my brow – Craig hunk-a-lunk Boone. Then it’s over to my office to write up the article, quick trip home for instant noodles and to put on a cocktail dress, and back to the hotel for the show’s wrap party.


	2. Chapter 2

Here’s how the interviews go.

Me: So, you play “The Courier” in the series.  
Eva: Yes.  
Me: And I hear you’re single.  
Eva: Yup. How’s that relevant?  
Me: Dating anyone in the cast?  
Eva: No. Are we going to talk about the show itself? Or just my love life?  
Me: Well, people’ve seen the show. Now they wanna hear more about you.  
Eva: Hmm.  
Me: You know, you look a lot like Michelle Rodriguez.  
Eva: If I had a dime...  
Me: (Gabbles incoherently about strong Hispanic female role models)  
Eva: Look, I love Michelle Rodriguez too, but I’m not Hispanic. My mother was Samoan.  
Me: Oh. “Was”...  
Eva: She’s dead.  
Me: Oh.  
Eva: So, about the show, then.  
Me: Yes. Yesyes. Are you and Boone going to get together, eventually?  
Eva: Have you actually not read the book?  
Me: (Gabbles incoherently about the show, trying and failing not make it obvious that I haven’t read the book)

So that one was a bust. She’s young enough not to give a shit what I write about her. Later on in her career, she’ll care a great deal. Then, if - and only if - she gets successful enough, she’ll stop again.

The next interviewee couldn’t be more different. “Vulpes Inculta” is played by young man named Samuel Skedgwell. As soon as he lets me into his room, I notice his voice is different to Vulpes’ voice in the show.

Me: Are you English?  
Sam: Yes. I’m a Londoner.  
Me: You had me fooled. I completely believed you were American. I even thought you were probably evil in real life too. Are you actually a bit evil?  
Sam: (laughs) You’ll have to be the judge of that. I try not to be.  
Me: Have you acted over here before, or is this your first “American” part?  
Sam: It is my first, and my first television role. Before that, I did theatre work. I do a mean Macbeth.  
Me: I’ll bet you do. How did you make the jump to this, then?  
Sam: Well, the role calls for me to speak Latin quite often, and I took Latin at Oxford.  
Me: Wow. You have a degree in Latin? How was that going to get you a job?  
Sam: I have a double-first in Latin and art history. And that’s why I’m an actor now (laughs)  
Me: Ok, I think you’ve intellectually out-classed me now.  
Sam: That’s not too difficult in America. (twinkly eyes)  
Me: Oh my god you better hope I don’t print that!  
Sam: (laughs so charmingly I can’t help but join in)

He’s totally adorable. I forget all about my interview with Ray George Orton, and chatter into the afternoon with Samuel instead. Until my phone bleeps and I see the time.

Me: Oh shit, excuse me, I gotta fly! I’m half an hour late for my next interview! (Frantically throwing things into bag)  
Sam: Will I see you at the wrap party tonight?  
Me: Uh... yeah. Yes. Will I see you? Or... you’ll probably be surrounded by admirers.  
Sam: No, they don’t let fan-kids in. If they did, Tony [“Arcade”] and Ray would be the ones getting swarmed anyway.  
Me: Ha ha yeah. Ok. I’ll come find you, then.  
Sam: That would be very nice. (Shakes my hand warmly)

I go away resisting the urge to sniff my hand. What’s wrong with me? Girly crushes on actors, for pity’s sake. Last time I had a crush on an actor, it was more than 15 years ago. Silly crushes on handsome filmstars I don’t need. What I need is a steady boyfriend, of the normal type, before I regress any further into teendom.

After profuse apologies for being so late, I sit down with Ray George Orton to discuss the strange and wonderful being that is Craig Boone.

In person and up close, Ray is even more impressive than he is onscreen. His muscled, tattooed body is monolithic and almost frightening just to be in range of. I resist the urge to look at his crotch. Then I have to tear my eyes off his chest, then his arms. I find myself staring at his hands. He could quite easily throttle me with just one of them.

He doesn’t say anything, and I finally drag my eyes up to look at his impassive face.

Me: So, uh. (Nervous giggle). Sam Skedgwell says you have a lot of fans, even as many as “Arcade”.  
Ray: Uh huh.

His voice is deep and slow, just like his voice in the show. No smile. No expression at all.

Me: Are you enjoying the fruits of success?  
Ray: What does that mean.  
Me: Er, are you enjoying the show being popular?  
Ray: Yeah.  
Me: Do you prefer being an actor than a wrestler?  
Ray: I don’t wanna talk about that.  
Me: I’m told you used to be in the marine corps, did -  
Ray: That either.  
Me: Ok, uh... (turns notebook pages, as half my questions just got wiped out) Ok. Is Craig Boone a hero or an anti-hero, would you say?  
Ray: You tell me.  
Me: Do you have an opinion on it?  
Ray: No.  
Me: Do you find relate to him, in some ways?  
Ray: Like what.  
Me: You know, ex-military, quiet type...  
Ray: (Just stares at me) 

This is like getting blood out of a stone. He’s obviously into body building though, so maybe we can talk about that.

Me: You have an impressive physique. Does it take a lot of time to maintain?  
Ray: Some.  
Me: So you spend a lot of time in the gym.  
Ray: Uh huh.

I persevere a bit longer, but he’s not exactly verbose, and realising I know next to nothing about body-building or what people do in gyms, I change tack yet again.

Me: You’re very popular with the ladies. Is there a special someone in your life at the moment?  
Ray: I just got divorced.  
Me: Oh. Was that fun? (I know, but I’m grabbing at straws now).  
Ray: (Stares at me)  
Me: I mean, of course it wasn’t. Well, a lot of people like you and The Courier together. Do you think something might happen there?  
Ray: (Leans back, folds his massive arms. Jaw hardens. Brow knits. Says nothing)

I’m saved by Ray George’s assistant knocking on the door and saying his next interview is ready. Except I’m in deep shit, because I’ve got nothing to write about him. I’ll just have to burble about ‘strong, silent type’ or something.

By now you’re probably thinking I’m the worst journalist in the world. I’d have to agree with you.

But these were not like the usual shallow, self-obsessed media whores I usually deal with. Usually, my interviewees are falling over themselves to tell me everything about themselves that they can think of, desperate for more exposure. All publicity is good publicity, they fervently believe. So much so, that I’ve gotten lazy and just let them gabble on, then write up whatever are the stupidest or most gossipworthy things they say. Evidently, I’ve actually forgotten how to interview people properly.

I go to the office and write up an article mostly based around interesting things the creatives and Samuel said to me today, padded out with what’s happened so far in the show, and a few bits and pieces I’ve googled about Eva and Ray George. I hint that they might be involved with each other. No evidence for that, but none required, by my readers at least.

Then I head home, scarf down some ramen, take a shower and get into my sexiest (and only) designer dress. There’s still a bit of time before the party will start.

I flop down on my back, staring at the ceiling.

My job is idiotic. I’m an idiot for doing it. I’m not even particularly good at it - my success is due to luck more than any other factor. Therefore, I should quit it... 

But that’s where I always get stuck. Quit a steady, well-paying job for what. Become an artist? Busk on street corners? Go to law school, like I kinda wanted to in the first place? And be a “mature” student. Urgh. Not that I’ve shown much maturity in the past 24 hours. Maybe I could become an entertainment lawyer and spend my time getting Lindsay Lohan out of trouble. Except that’s a criminal lawyer. Come to think of it I don’t actually know what entertainment lawyers do.

The train of thought concludes the way it always does. The job is dumb, yeah, but it’s easy and sometimes fun, and it gives me something to laugh about. Let’s see how tonight’s party goes. At the bare minimum it’s free champagne and a chance to show off my cute dress. And who knows, maybe Oxbridge Sam will make good on his promise to chat with me. Teach me a few Latin phrases, maybe.  
Ha.


	3. Chapter 3

Party time. After passing the list-check, I walk in to no effect. Not a single person talks to me. I lift a manhattan with a stalked cherry in it from the tray of a passing waiter. I recognise the taste of sweet cinzano, nice. Deceptive, though. I better not have too many of these. I wouldn’t say I was a messy drunk, exactly, but I don’t make my best decisions either.

One thing about being tall, you get a better view in crowds.

Eva the Courier is on the far side of the room with several of the people I met at lunch today, including the series director, and a gaunt-cheeked, bright eyed woman I think is the original book’s author. Ray George Orton is standing with some studly guys I don’t recognise, but who are all built, and one of which looks not unlike him. Stunt doubles, I presume.

Ray George sees me looking, and holds eye contact with me for a few moments, even while one of the guys he’s with grabs his shoulder to tell him something.

I drift around. A few other people stare at me, probably trying to work out if I’m someone important that they should schmooze with.

I finish my drink and go looking for another. Well well, who is lounging in the dimly-lit end of the bar but Sam Skedgwell, looking very dapper in a dark suit.  
“Hello sir,” I salute him with my empty martini glass. Only the cherry remains in it now.  
“Good evening,” he smiles back, raising his glass to touch it against mine. He’s drinking the same thing.  
I try to get the barman’s attention, and while I wait, pop the cherry into my mouth. I notice Sam watching me closely.  
“Would you like my mine?” he asks, offering his glass, cherry intact. “I don’t go for sweet things very much.”  
“Well that’s a shame, ‘cos I can be pretty sweet,” I say before I can stop myself.

Oops. Did I just drop a pickup line so cheesy it could be draped on a burger? What is _wrong_ with me?

Rushing to change the subject, I ask him if he enjoyed working on the show, and what his next project will be.

To my disappointment he tells me he’s not doing any more work in the States, and is heading home to appear in the Globe theatre as Antony in a production of Antony and Cleopatra.  
“So... you won’t be back?” I ask. Sorrow might have crept into my voice a little.  
“Not unless Fallout: New Vegas films a third season.”  
“But you could become a really big star over here. You’re on the very cusp of it. People love your ‘Vulpes Inculta’. You could be huge, like Toms Hardy, or Hiddleston. And you’re way, way cuter than either of them.”

He laughs. “Well, thank you, you’re pretty cute yourself. But I’m not really interested in that kind of stardom. I recently bought a flat in London Bridge, and I just did this tv series to pay the mortgage.”  
“London Bridge!” My eyes grow wide.  
“Not the one you’re thinking of. That’s Tower Bridge,” he says.  
“Oh. Still. Congratulations on getting your own place!”  
“Thank you.”  
We salute each other again, and sink some more vermouth. I’m falling a little bit in heart with him, I admit it.

Sam asks me about my job. We talk about it for a while. He’s a good listener, and I find myself admitting my feelings about it, that it seems meaningless, destructive even, and not much of a challenge either. He asks me what I would rather have done. I confess to my teenage law school ambitions.  
“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but do you have a family?” he asks.  
“Like, hubby and kids? No.”  
“Then why not go do it? If it’s just you, with no dependents, why not do what you really want to do?” he says.  
“I could, couldn’t I,” I say slowly.  
“You should.”  
“Yes, I should.”  
“You will.”  
“I will. Yes. No. No! I have no idea how to do get into that world!”

He looks thoughtful. “Well... maybe I can help you. My older brother Christopher is a music lawyer in London. He’s an approachable sort. I could put you in touch with him, if you like.”  
“But he’s in London.”  
“He works for one of the big labels, so he’s in New York quite often. You could meet him there.”

I’m almost lost for words. “Thank you. That is incredibly sweet of you, Sam.”  
He just shrugs like it’s nothing, and asks me if I have a card he can give his brother when he gets home.

I do have a business card, quite a snazzy one with all my various numbers and email addresses on it, and I usually have a stash of them in my bag, but just at this moment, I can’t find one of the damned things. I hoist my bag up onto the bar to see better as I dig through it.

Sam is fascinated by the bountiful contents of my bag. “My god, what do you have in there?” he says, peering in and poking about with one finger. “Is that a Phillips screwdriver? What’s ‘non-dairy creamer’? Do you habitually carry your passport around? Bloody hell, you’ve enough painkillers there to kill a horse!”

“I like to be prepared,” I say, triumphantly pulling out a slightly dog-eared business card from the bottom of the bag, “for any eventuality.”  
“What kind of eventualities are you anticipating?” he asks, looking at my miniature edition of _The Prophet_.  
“That’s just it. I don’t know,” I put everything back in the bag. “But anything could happen. Or at least,” I pause a moment, “I used to think so.”  
Sam’s looking at me with interest. “You actually want ‘anything’ to happen?”  
“Yeah. I do.”  
The barman passes by, and freshens our drinks.  
“Here’s to ‘anything’,” Sam toasts.  
“Or even just something,” I toast him back.

We’re interrupted by Sam’s agent, who hustles him off to go meet Kathryn Bigelow who apparently wants him for her next film project. He tells me he’ll be back, so I settle down to wait.

And wait. 

Two or more manhattans later, I get sick of fobbing off attention from other men and decide to leave. He’s not coming back. Why would he? He’s a shooting star, and I’m a lump of lead.

Yeah, alcohol likes to make me depressed after it finishes making me happy.

As I weave through the crowd, Craig Boone intercepts me. Ray George Orton, I mean. Hard to tell them apart.  
“Hey girl,” he says. “I wanted to say sorry. About today. Took a shitty phone call from my lawyer, then you were half an hour late. Guess it put me in a bad mood. So, yeah, sorry about that.”  
“It’s alright,” I say.  
“We cool?” he asks. I don’t know why he cares whether we’re cool or not, but I assure him that we are.  
“Have a drink with me,” he says, and taking my hand, pulls me through the crowd towards a waiter.

I don’t really want another one, but he presses one into my hands and I decide it’s not worth arguing about.

That was definitely one too many, because after that, events become a little blurred. Somehow I end up out on a small balcony with Ray George, I think under the premise that he wants a cigarette, but then it turns out that he’s more interested in flesh than smoke, and before I know it, my dress is pulled up, my back’s against the wall, and my body, and dignity, is being crushed.

It’s fun, sort of, but I would enjoy it a lot more if I were sober. As it is, I feel disoriented and faintly queasy. It’s almost like an out of body experience. Oh look, here comes someone.

Of course. It’s Sam, looking for me. He observes Ray George grinding into me, the look of disappointment on his face as old as humanity. Then he walks away.


	4. Chapter 4

My phone is chirping. I open my eyes and stare blearily at it. It seems to be telling me that it’s after 11 the next morning. That would explain why I’m in bed, my own, thank god. It’s also saying that a strange number is calling me. I don’t even recognise the area code. What the fuck is an 004479 number?

“Hello,” I try. It keeps ringing. Oh. I need to press the green button harder. Or at all.  
“Hello?”  
“Good morning,” a familiar voice says. An English-accented voice. Aaaahh it’s him!  
“He! I mean hi! Sam! What’s happening?” I babble.  
“Anything is happening.”  
It takes me a moment to work out what he means, during which time he speaks again. “I’m at the airport bar. My flight leaves in two hours. Would you fancy having a drink with me before I go? Or you might prefer a coffee. With non-dairy creamer.” I hear a smile in his voice.

Well, well well. What do you know. I’ve been given some sort of reprieve. Don’t deserve it, but I’ll sure take it.

You would not believe how fast I shower, dress, and drive to the airport. My hair is still wet when I walk into the bar, and see him waving to me from a booth.

“My brother called me, so I took the opportunity of telling him about you,” he says.  
“About what a fuck-up I am?” I ask wryly.  
There’s a pause while Sam looks at me. “I described you as a ‘friend of mine’.”  
“Oh.”  
“And he asked if you were really a ‘girl I was interested in’.”  
“Oh.”  
“And I said... yes.”

A waitress comes by and we order fresh ground coffees, mine white and fluffy with chocolate sprinkled on top, Sam’s straight and black.

“You’re very direct,” I say when the waitress moves off.  
“It’s hard to get what you want if you aren’t direct.”  
“Huh. Maybe that’s why I never get what I want.”  
“You don’t seem too unhappy,” Sam observes.  
“I’m not. I just... feel disappointed in myself sometimes.” I take a breath. This is going to be awkward. “I’m sorry about last night. For what it’s worth.”  
“You don’t have to apologise to me. You’re the one that did it,” he teases.

I laugh. What else can I do? “Thanks, it wasn’t that bad.”  
“Seemed like a good idea at the time?”  
“No. I didn’t even see it coming. It wasn’t my idea. I just went along with it, ‘cos the vermouth told me it would cheer me up if I did.”  
He frowns. “Cheer you up? You seemed cheery enough when I left you.”  
“I was... but then I realised you weren’t coming back.”  
“I said I would come back. And I did.”  
“Yeah but it was so long!”  
“Pff. It was half an hour.”  
“It was the longest half hour of my life.”

Sam looks bothered. “Did Ray George not give you a choice in the matter?”  
“Yes and no. It’s hard to explain.”  
“Do you want me to punch him in the mouth for you?”  
“Would you do that for me?”  
“Yes. He’s built of concrete so it’ll probably just bounce off, but I’ll do it.”  
“Ha ha! Nah. Thanks for the offer, but I don’t really hold it against him. I could have told him I wasn’t into it, but I didn’t. Just went along for the ride.” I shrug.

We’re interrupted by our coffees arriving. Sam’s looks adult; mine looks like something a kid would order. Yet again I disappoint myself.  
“I’m surprised you called me,” I admit.  
“I thought you deserved a second chance.” Sam sips his coffee. “I don’t give third chances though.” He says it quietly but I hear it loud and clear.

My stupid-looking drink is actually pretty yummy. I get some painkillers out of my bag and wash them down too.  
Better.  
“So are you gonna do the Kathryn Bigelow movie?” I ask.  
“Maybe. It’s certainly an interesting project. I meant what I said about preferring theatre work, though. And I don’t really fancy being recognised by ever more random people on the underground. So I don’t know. Oh - my agent had some other news though. Fallout: New Vegas series three has been green-lighted.” He smiles again, warmly.

My eyes light up. “Really? That’s fantastic! So you’ll be back!”

My fool of a heart is going pitter-patter.

“That’s so cool! When does it start?” I gush. “Hey you know what? Instead of staying three months in a crumby hotel you could just come and stay with me. I got a lotta space and you could borrow my other car.”  
“You have two cars? I don’t even own one.”  
“Yeah, long story, but they both run ok.” One was an ex-boyfriend’s. What an ugly saga that was.

Sam sips coffee slowly. “That’s a very nice offer. Thank you. I might take you up on the car. Have to learn to drive on the wrong side of the road sooner or later I suppose. I like hotels though. No distractions, helps to focus the mind.”

A female voice blares from overhead. “FIRST BOARDING CALL FOR FLIGHT VA44 TO LONDON GATWICK.”

Oh no. Too soon. Not enough has been said. No..!

Sam downs the rest of his coffee and starts to collect his things.

“Oh my god, I so wish you weren’t leaving,” I say, feeling suddenly miserable.  
He looks at me thoughtfully. “Why don’t you come with me?”  
“To... on the plane?”  
“Why not. It’s a long flight and I wouldn’t mind having some company. And you’re prepared, after all, for any eventuality. ” He wiggles his eyebrows.  
“But... I...”  
“Tell you what. Let’s see if there’s a free seat on the plane. If there is, I’ll buy you a ticket.”

He picks up his bag and walks out of the bar and towards the airline desk. By the time I’ve recovered my senses and scrambled to join him, he’s already established that there are plenty of free seats on the flight. Enough that we could sit together.

I don’t let him pay. I have money of my own, and I don’t like feeling indebted to anyone. I buy the ticket myself, hardly able to believe what I’m doing, but excited as hell at the same time.

I’m clutching my passport and a ticket to London in my hand.

Anything is happening.

“I’ve got the weirdest feeling, that any minute now something is gonna happen for which I need a Phillips screwdriver,” I say.  
“They’ll confiscate that,” Sam says, dashing my dream.

“LAST BOARDING CALL FOR FLIGHT VA44 TO LONDON GATWICK.”

Sam takes my other hand. “Shall we?”


	5. Chapter 5

They confiscate my Phillips screwdriver.

They also don’t like the look of my sachets of white powder, aka non-dairy creamer, and only grudgingly let me keep them after making me open one and swallow some.

By the time we get on the plane, we’ve made it nearly ten minutes late for takeoff and everyone already on board gives us accusatory looks as we pass down the aisle to our seats. We must look an odd couple, him in an immaculately tailored suit, me in cowboy boots, old jeans and ribbed tank-top that’s good for showing off boobs and tan on a warm day in Vegas, not so good for arriving in London at 4am.

We have seats 42A and B. There’s no one in 42C. Sam graciously offers me his window seat, and we buckle up.

As the plane taxis down the runway, then sweeps up into the air, I feel like I’m in a dreamstate. Not an out-of-control one like last night, watching what is happening to me with no sense of ability to influence events, but a fluid, trippy state where everything’s going my way without me even having to pin down exactly what my way will be.

We have fun on the flight. We talk a lot. 

Then they put the lights out and try to get everyone to go to sleep. No one does, at first. Most people watch the in-flight movies or play games on their phones. Sam reads my copy of The Prophet.  
“ _You have been told also life is darkness, and in your weariness you echo what was said by the weary._   
_And I say that life is indeed darkness save when there is urge,_  
_And all urge is blind save when there is knowledge,_  
_And all knowledge is vain save when there is work,_  
_And all work is empty save when there is love,_ ” he reads.  
I nod. “My work has sure felt quite empty, lately.”  
Sam glances at me sideways. “Well, we’re going to do something about that. Christopher sounded quite happy to let you pick his brains and follow him about on the job for a while.”  
“Oh, cool! Thank you, Sam, you didn’t have to do that.”  
“Always willing to help a damsel in distress,” he says, eyes twinkling.

After a while everyone on the plane obeys the air stewards’ bidding and falls asleep under thin blankets, heads falling awkwardly sideways. Sam and I are almost the only ones awake. That’s when reaches over, turns my head gently to his, and kisses me.

And kisses me all the way across the darkened Atlantic.

By the time we touch down in pre-dawn London, I have a serious case of stubble rash. And I also couldn’t care less. 

As we step outside the airport into London’s strange night air, Sam lends me a dark grey fine-wool sweater from his suitcase, and my transformation is complete. I am someone else, now.

***

The next morning I’m woken, again, by my phone, making the tingle-tingle sound that tells me I have a text.

I sit up in Sam’s bed, and see that I’m alone. I look for my phone on the nightstand. There’s a piece of paper next to it. A note from Sam.  
 _Hey, American Girl,_ it says, _I’ve popped out for some American supplies. Spray cheese, cherry-cinnamon flavoured things etc._   
_Back soon. Make yourself at home._  
 _Sam._

I put the note down and pick up my phone, which informs me that it’s 10:06am, local time.

The text turns out to be sext. Ray George, no less.  
 _Hey, it’s RG. Where you at, pretty baby? Wanna keep me some company?_  
It’s after midnight where he is, so this is a booty call, pure and simple.  
 _Not possible. I’m in London, England._ I reply with some satisfaction.  
There’s a pause then, _With sam???_  
Ha ha! _Yes_  
Another pause. _Hes an ok guy but yull start to miss real American beef soon babe_  
 _Don’t think so. Cya_  
Ray George persists, _Let me know when you come to yur senses_. Then he adds: _I’m gettin hard as hell just thinkin bout yu_  
Oh no. No sexting. I got no third chances.  
 _Bye Ray George._  
 _Cmon babe. Just tell me bout yur panties_  
 _BYE._

***

Being a journalist I have advanced snooping skills, but I try not to use them on friends or relations. So, no, I don’t look in Sam’s browser history or photo folders, even though he’s left his laptop open and running on the coffee table in the living room.

Which, by the way, is microscopic. The room is made tinier by being lined almost wall to wall with bookshelves. Books on things I know he’s into, like latin, classical histories, literature, criticism, plays, books on theatre and performance art, film, paintings, biographies of playwrights, painters and directors; and then books on every other thing under the sun. About ten times more books than I’ve read in my entire life.

That’s ok. I already knew he was much better educated than me.

I go to the bathroom, which is reasonably clean, for a guy. My no-snooping-on-friends rule slips a bit when I notice his medicine cabinet door ajar. A quick peek can be justified on the basis that if he has a medical condition, that could be my business, couldn’t it?

The peek reveals nothing incriminating however, other than a small half-used box of tampons, an eyeliner pencil, and a jar of Brylcreem hair gel. So he’s had a girl living here, and he used to wear his hair longer than the buzzcut he currently wears to play Vulpes Inculta.

Back in the bedroom, my phone tinkles.

It’s Ray George again.  
 _Going to sleep. Alone. Talk tomo, k?_  
About what?  
 _Ok._ I reply.  
 _Night babe_  
 _Night._

Well, that was weird.

Looking at my phone gives me an idea, and I open the browser on it and set to google-imaging Sam, curious about how he used to use the Brylcreem.

Oh ... my... god.

There are shots of him leaving fancy parties and clubs, wearing his dark hair in a kind of 1950s greaser quiff. Very short on the back and sides, styled to perfection on top. But that’s not the only thing that’s perfect. It’s the girl he’s pictured with.

“Actor Sam Skedgwell leaving The Rumpus Room with his girlfriend, Swedish catwalk model Sigrid Sorensson,” I read, under a picture of him with a blonde at his side. She looks impossibly, ethereally beautiful.  
He looks happy.

Insecurity is unattractive in itself, and I’m not usually prone to it, but looking at Sigrid godlike-cheekbones Sorensson I’m starting to feel like a lump of lead again. I knew Sam was out of my league, but I hadn’t realised how far. Light years.

At this point, googling Sigrid could only make me feel worse. So of course I do it. And of course it turns out she was ‘discovered’ by Models One while finishing a masters degree in molecular biology at the University of Stockholm. And, since that’s obviously not enough, she’s also related to Ingrid Bergman. 

That grinding sound is my teeth. I hate her so venomously I feel slightly sick. I’m actually poisoning myself with my own bile.

The key turns in the lock and Sam walks in with some grocery shopping. He smiles at me and starts putting the items away and making a pot of coffee. He’s brought some pain au chocolat from a bakery, still warm.

I feel all strange. A kind of bad kind of excited, like I’ve already had too many espressos.

“How long have you lived here?” I ask, hoping to ascertain how recently the tampon and eyeliner owner was in occupation.

“Eighteen months or thereabouts,” he responds, pouring me a cup. We go out onto his miniscule balcony with the pastries and coffee.  
“Have you always lived alone?”  
He looks at me curiously. “What are you getting at?”  
Honesty is the best policy, I decide. “I made the mistake of googling you, and saw your really really ridiculously good-looking girlfriend,” I say, accidentally channelling Derek Zoolander.  
“Which one?” he asks innocently.  
“Sigrid.”  
“She’s an ex-girlfriend.”  
“Who dumped who?”  
“Hard to say... we just lost interest in each other.”

He’s just looking at me, not saying anything.

Don’t show insecurity, don’t show insecurity.

“She’s pretty good at ‘Le Tigre’,” I say eventually.  
“She can do ‘Blue Steel’ too,” says Sam, taking sip of coffee.  
“Ha. Ok.”  
“Did you get an attack of jealous?”  
“Somewhat.”  
“Good. I like you being jealous of me.”  
“She’s just such a... superhuman.”  
“I’ll let you in on a little secret.” He leans conspiratorially toward me. “Her feet smell. And worse,” he leans closer, “she has NO ARSE!”

I can’t help but laugh at that.  
“Actually the worst thing about her,” Sam says, seriously now, “is that she has no real sense of humour. If she watches a comedy, she just stares at it.”  
“Really?”  
“Mm-hmm. You know the bit in Pineapple Express, where they’re trying to escape from the cops and they get milkshake all over their car window so they decide to kick it out?”  
“Yes I do!” I’m grinning at the memory of it.  
“Nothing. Just stared. Didn’t see anything funny about it at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... finally continued! :D
> 
> By the way, definitely check out StellaDraco's "Some Other World", http://archiveofourown.org/works/2617775/chapters/5836694  
> which was allegedly inspired by this humble fic but is INFINITELY MORE AWESOME and I cannot praise enough.  
> If you love intricately plotted, beautifully written, longer fics with unique characters (and steamy Vulpes action), Some Other World is for you.  
> Love,  
> Trystero.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s not the revelation of Sigrid’s imperfections which cheers me, so much as the fact that Sam is considerately trying to put me at my ease. It would be rude not to comply. So I relax a little, and look at the view.

The view is of cramped streets, ancient-looking buildings intermingled with brand new ones, people from every continent pushing pushchairs and talking on mobiles, weird blue bicycles, mean-looking motorbike couriers, black cabs, red double-decker busses, and walking distance away, between buildings, I see glimpses of the Thames river. It’s a dull grey, like the sky. Every now and then an odd, slightly foul scent blows our way.  
“What’s that faint smell?” I ask.  
Sam sniffs the air. “That is the summertime smell of a river which runs through the centre of a 1500-year-old city.”  
“It doesn’t smell like that in the winter?”  
“Not unless you get very close.” Sam’s phone rings in his pocket and he answers it, talking cheerfully to what sounds like an old friend called “Bells”. I hear him ask if it’s ok if he brings someone. Guess we’ve been invited out.

It occurs to me I have no idea of my status here. How long am I staying in his apartment for? Am I friend or lover? If the latter, am I transient, or potential girlfriend? 

“That was an old friend of mine, Arabella,” he explains when the call is over. “We’re going out to dinner with her tonight.”

‘Arabella’? Bit princessey. 

Oh stop it, quit the jealousy, I tell myself. You haven’t even met her, she’s probably really nice. Sam seems like the kind of person who has nice friends. 

“Shall I put some music on?” asks Sam, pouring me another coffee and stirring in some non-dairy creamer that he managed to buy for me this morning.  
“Sure.” I watch him as he goes inside. His butt, now attired in black jeans, below a faded black t-shirt, is as cute as they get. Pretty damn cute. Not to mention the shape of his shoulders, the way he walks... everything about him. The teenagey thrill of looking at hot eye-candy is taking me over again.

I’ve never been a believer of the friends-with-benefits theory, and now, catching myself mentally-stripping him, I know that we’re not proper friends; not with this much sexual tension between us. So what exactly are we? There’s been no sex yet. Last night when we got in, I went to straight to the shower, while he got the place ready for occupation after three months of standing empty. When I came out, dressed in just a towel, I half expected him to ravish me, but instead he handed me one of his t-shirts to sleep in, indicated his freshly-made bed, and I lay down and was lost to slumber before he finished his shower and got in with me. If he did get in with me – I’m not even sure of that.

The closest we’ve gotten to sex was smooching on the plane. Oh, and him seeing me have drunken up-against-the-wall sex with Ray George on the balcony at the wrap party. Urgh. Remembering that makes me cringe more than a little, and being out on a balcony now is an unwanted reminder too.

I get up and follow Sam inside, to find him on the phone again. Now he’s talking to his agent, and it sounds like the Kathryn Bigelow movie is all go. He’s going to his agent’s office tomorrow to be introduced to some producers and casting agents and whatnot.

No sooner does he finish that call when the phone rings again. Now it’s someone called Joan, who is just back from Paris and disappointed to hear that she can’t take Sam out tonight because he’s already booked by Bells, so compromises by organising a coffee date mid-afternoon. To which, again, I am requested and granted permission to attend.

There’s a velvet-covered sofa opposite the stereo, and I flop down on it, watching Sam delicately lower the needle onto a record. Old school. It fits. David Bowie’s _Modern Love_ begins to play. Interesting.

I’m dressed in the slim-fitting t-shirt he gave me, which is soft and white, and my jeans. No underwear beneath, since I didn’t fancy putting yesterday’s on. The t-shirt is stretched across my bra-less breasts, and I notice him give an appreciative glance as he comes back to sit on the floor close to me.  
“Sorry I’m stretching your shirt,” I say, entirely disingenuously.  
He doesn’t say anything at first, just gives me a catlike look, and then lets his gaze drop to the scene of the crime. Then he says, softly, “Pull it up.”  
I return the feline look. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Snug shirt pulled up to just above the swell of my breasts, I wait for him to lunge at me and start suckling or kneading or rubbing his face on them or his cock between them, or pinching my nipples or licking then blowing on them, all the usual dumb things men like to do with boobs. He doesn’t do any of them. Just sits there casually, with a painter’s eyes, as though noting and memorising their precise shapes and tone.

The record finishes.  
“Put one on if you like,” says Sam to my breasts.   
I get up and flick through his record collection. Sam watches me with a look not unlike the one I watched him go inside with. 

His taste is definitely interesting. With the exception of some Gregorian chanting, he has no classical music, which is good, though surprising given his classical education. I hate classical music, to me it reeks of phoney grandeur. Yeah, I know that probably makes me a cavewoman; but an honest one at least, if that counts for anything.  
The predominant theme of Sam’s collection is British altpop. Lots of bands I’ve barely or never heard of, a few I know. I flip past Bloc Party, PJ Harvey, Kate Bush, the Cure, more David Bowie.  
“I don’t know what to put on,” I admit. “You choose something.”

Sam rises, and chooses a single entitled “Hounds of Love” by the Futureheads, which starts off with men acapella-ing the sounds of dogs barking.

It’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard - and I _love_ it. At 21 seconds in, my jaw drops. At 42 seconds I’m covered in goosebumps. At 1:04 I think it’s the best piece of music I’ve ever had the pleasure to hear. By 1:55 I’m clutching my still-bare chest because it feels like my heart is going to explode. 

Sam is clocking my reaction. “You like that one,” he observes as the song abruptly finishes, eyes bright as though he’s caught up in my excitement.  
I just nod my head and let my eyebrows do the talking.  
“Did you recognise it?”  
Shake.  
He pulls out an album by Kate Bush, also called Hounds of Love, and puts on the title track. Same song, but much slower and less crazed.  
“Not many people would dare to cover Kate Bush, but I think they nailed it,” he says thoughtfully.  
“It’s the kind of song that no one should ever try to karaoke,” I agree.  
“Take your jeans off,” Sam says. On discovering I have no panties on under my jeans, his eyebrows take a turn to comment.  
I feel the need to explain. “Call me crazy but yesterday when you invited me for a quick coffee I didn’t think to bring extra underpants.”  
“Oh? I thought you were prepared,” Sam says, pulling the white shirt the rest of the way off me, “for any eventuality.”  
“My normally-lurid imagination somehow failed to apprehend such a spectacular eventuality,” I confess, a little breathlessly because Sam’s hot mouth is busy exploring the skin around my collarbone.

So much ‘anything’ is happening it’s making me quiver. 

Voice muffled by kissing my hair, he requests me to choose some more music. I pick out an album called “Avalon.” I’m fascinated by the cover, which shows a silhouetted figure in a horned helmet, a masked hawk perched on his gauntlet, looking out over an eerie, misty lake. The helmet is highly polished, and shapes are reflected in it, but I can’t quite make out what.  
“What is this?” I ask.  
“Play it,” Sam says, now around the back of me, kissing the back of my neck, hands on my buttocks. “You must know it. You have an incredible arse, by the way.”  
“Er.. thanks?”  
I’m doubtful, but as soon as the first bars play, it starts to sound familiar, and once the lyrics kick in I realise I do know it.  
 _I could feel, at the time, there was no way of knowing..._   
“You’ve chosen probably my favourite album of all time,” Sam muses, behind me. “And speaking of karaoke, I dare you to try singing this one,” he challenges.  
“Try, I certainly can. No guarantees about succeeding though.”

Sam puts the needle back to the beginning of _More Than This_. Taking a deep breath, I give it my best shot, and fail utterly.  
“See? It’s impossible,” Sam says, laughing. “Everyone just ends up sounding like Bill Murray in Lost in Translation.”  
“Haha, omigod, Biw Muwway!”  
Sam looks at me in open mouthed delight. “You saw Coffee and Cigarettes?”  
“Oh yeah, and I loved it. Don’t drink any more of that coffee Biw Muwway! You can get sewious delewium!”  
“Trust me, I’m a doctor,” Sam returns.  
“Hahahaha!”

Laughing eyes meet laughing eyes, and then, at long last, lips reconvene.

***

Not many guys have the stamina for long sessions of oral, but Sam is something else. He sure knows what he’s doing, and he doesn’t stop till he makes me plead for an end to a breathtakingly elongated orgasm.

It’s only polite to reciprocate. 

This is the first time I have seen his naked body. Now, standing in front of me, I’m aware all over again of how far out of my league he is. His body is beautiful, and I accidentally say it out loud.  
“So is yours,” he says.   
“Naw... not this level of epic,” I say, stroking my hands over the rock-hard muscles of his thighs, my line of sight following a trail of fine dark hairs leading south from his navel to... hot damn.  
“Heh. Well, try not to get used to it. This is my Fallout: New Vegas body. I only maintain it like this when I’m filming. The rest of the time, I’m a normal guy,” Sam says candidly. “It’s fake tan, and working out actually bores me silly. I hope that’s not a problem for you.”  
I look up, mouth now full of him, and shake my head. There’s no problem here, officer.

***

“Shall we venture out?” Sam suggests, pulling his jeans back on. “We need to get you some underwear, for one thing.”

Outside, it’s not quite raining, but the sky is dark grey and doesn’t look promising. Sam brings a large umbrella with a curved, polished-wood handle and swings it jauntily as we walk down the street.  
“Is this normal weather, for summertime here?” I ask dubiously, peering upwards.  
“Pretty much. Anyone wanting to see blue sky in London has to be up and about well before 10 in the morning,” Sam replies. He takes my hand, and kisses the back of it. “If you sleep in, you’ll never know it had been a beautiful day.”

***

Here’s how the rest of the day turns out. Underwear shopping is done in a shop called “Ann Summers” which at first glance looks like a Victoria’s Secret-style lacy underwear shop, but inside is both that and a sex shop aimed primarily at women. Sam, incognito in dark glasses, is the only man in there. I buy a whole lot of racy stuff for me. Sam picks out some “toys” for me too. He’s paying for them, so I don’t ask. I’ll find out soon enough.

We then go clothes shopping and I buy some jeans and other ordinary things. Sam suggests I buy an evening dress and takes me to a fancy shop. I don’t let him choose one for me but I do ask him to pick the one he likes best out of two mini-dresses I’ve chosen, both of which looked great on. It’s black, long-sleeved, very slightly see-through, and has a v-neckline that plunges almost to the waist. The shop assistant recommends some special tape to prevent any inadvertent boob-flashings, which I buy too. 

I don’t let him pay for that either. Which leads us to the conversation, as we head home, about when I’m going to be expected back at work. Being a journo, I can pretty much work from home, but I still need things to write about. Sam suggests that when we have dinner tonight, I should ask Arabella if she knows any fun celebrity gossip that she doesn’t mind sharing, as she apparently circulates in the in-crowd.

Coffee with Joan is scary. She’s even taller than me, perfectly coiffed afro, wears beautifully intricate silver jewellery, and apparently knows Sam from Oxford University where they studied art history together. She now has a job as a gallery curator, and what she was doing in Paris was co-ordinating an exhibition. She speaks perfect French because her parents were from a French-speaking African country, I didn’t ask which, and in the evenings she is a singer in a lounge band. Shades of Sigrid. I can’t help wondering if Sam and Joan ever had a thing together. They seem very happy and relaxed in each other’s company, and to hear them talk, have about a million friends in common.

She’s immaculately polite to me, but I feel uncomfortable because she’s so intimidatingly cultured. Next to her, I feel like some swamp thing.

We head home to get dressed for dinner, undress, have some more sex, and dress again. Sam takes yet more phone calls, social and business. Everyone wants a piece of him.

Dinner with Arabella is excruciating. When we arrive at the French restaurant, Sam in a suit and me in my elegant new dress, she’s curled up on a seat reading _Horse & Hound_ magazine. The cover shows very wealthy and well-bred looking people doing fox-hunting. Turns out, Arabella is all about well-bred. She’s the daughter of an earl or a duke or something, and her accent sounds like the Queen’s. She has waistlength pale blonde hair and not an ounce of fat on her body, except for her bust which is remarkably large and makes her look like one of those stick figures with two circles at the top. Nor has she a single muscle. I wonder how she can walk with such muscle-less legs. She talks a lot about parties and Who was There. She just got back from some private island in the Caribbean where there were a lot of parties and People.

She’s sort of Paris Hilton-ey. I don’t understand why Sam likes her, and as the evening goes by I increasingly get the impression that the feeling is mutual. She greets Sam with big fake kisses but I get a limp handshake, quickly withdrawn. The first thing she says to me is: “So you’re Sam’s latest thing.” Being described as a thing is mildly offputting but I smile and say maybe, and try my best to exude friendliness. The next things she says to me, some time later, is “So where did Sam find you?” On being told Las Vegas, she says brightly, “And what do you do. Oh wait! I’ll try and guess. You’re... a cocktail waitress at Caesar’s Palace! And you’re wearing your uniform!”   
“She’s a reporter, actually.” Sam says drily.  
“Oh! How daring of you, Sam, dating a member of the paparazzi!” says Arabella with a look on her puss as if I’d said I sweep up dog poop for a living. I forgive her for that one, after all journalists pretty much are the scum of the earth, who am I to argue. But I don’t forgive her for dissing my new dress, which cost me nearly two weeks’ pay.   
All of a sudden, the dress seems trashy, and I feel like swamp thing again.  
“Oh, Samuel darling, did you hear Sigrid and Jules broke up!” Arabella burbles on, pleased no doubt by her successful stab.  
“Hm,” says Sam, looking not all interested.  
“She hasn’t been happy with anyone since you left her. It’s such a shame. I’ll never understand why you did that, you two were simply perfection together, everyone says so.”  
Sam doesn’t say anything, just gives Arabella an appraising look. Arabella gets the hint, but she can’t resist one more jab. “Oh well. The hearts wants what the heart wants, I suppose. No doubt you’ll meet your Amal soon.”   
I immediately recognise this as a reference to the well-known fact that George Clooney dated a Las Vegas cocktail waitress, before he met his infinitely superior-quality wife.  
Sam’s gaze at her has hardened, but he still doesn’t speak. I guess that’s good. He doesn’t think he needs to defend me, since as a professional wordsmith, not to mention a grown-up, I can defend myself from this schoolyard bullying. But should I?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Some Other World](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2617775) by [StellaDraco](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StellaDraco/pseuds/StellaDraco)




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